


In the Darkness Find Them

by sylviarachel



Series: All the 221Bs [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, 5+1 Things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, John has nightmares, John's Jumpers, Johnlock (but only in Sherlock's head), M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock has feelings, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylviarachel/pseuds/sylviarachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sherlock Holmes wanted to hug John Watson, and one time he actually did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Banker

_Sebastian Wilkes_. Sherlock almost can’t believe it when he sees the name in his inbox, after all these years, and he’s genuinely astonished (and then disgusted) to be addressed as “buddy” and offered _money_. He’s nearly decided not to take the offered case, even though it has several features of interest, because Seb is really not someone he wants to see again, when John leans forward in his chair, elbows on knees, and hesitantly asks if Sherlock can lend him some cash, and he abruptly changes his mind. Sherlock doesn’t want Sebastian’s money, but John needs it, so he springs up from his chair and hauls John off to Shad Sanderson.

Seb is just as unpleasant as Sherlock anticipated, but Sherlock can handle that; what stings is John’s hasty correction, _friend_ to _colleague_ – he knows why John said it, anyone would react badly to Seb’s insinuating tone and stupid waggling eyebrows, but still: coming from John, it stings. He retaliates obliquely by deducing Seb and then pretending he hasn’t.

He disdains Seb’s retainer cheque, knowing John will look after it, wanting John to have it in any case. And he manages to conceal his delight when John (clever John!) sees right through his sleight-of-hand with Seb.

Graffiti and locked doors and John: stupid Seb notwithstanding, this case could be really brilliant.


	2. Blood

They’re in the kitchen after dinner, John doing the washing-up while Sherlock updates his mould index, and John is humming under his breath, which should infuriate Sherlock but somehow, when it’s John in their kitchen of an evening, doesn’t. John’s got his shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows and Sherlock, glancing over (for no particular reason; _definitely_ not because he enjoys looking at John), sees a small bruise in the hollow of John’s right elbow and his heart – against all physiological possibility – skips a beat.

But then he registers the other signs – the faint marks of adhesive tape either side of the bruise; John’s slightly fatigued look; the minute crumbs (cheap cellophane-wrapped digestives) on the front of his jumper when he arrived home from the surgery; the torn-off corner of a red sticker on his jacket lapel, glimpsed as he hung it up on the hook: _Blood bank. He’s been to the blood bank._

From perusing John’s bureau drawers while he’s out, Sherlock knows that John is type O-negative – a universal donor. And he’s a doctor, and has worked in a war zone: he understands the importance of a reliable blood supply. Probably he donates on a monthly schedule. That would be very… _John_.

So there’s no reason at all for Sherlock to feel so relieved that it was only blood.


	3. Blame

“You _idiot_.” John’s hands clench and release: he’s trying hard not to throw a punch. “You _unbelievable_ idiot. What were you _thinking_ , Sherlock?”

“I—”

“You could’ve waited for me. Two minutes wouldn’t have made any difference. Or at least texted me. Given me some _clue_. Jesus, Sherlock.”

“It was dangerous,” Sherlock says. “I didn’t want—”

“Shut,” says John, dangerously, “up. I am an _adult_ , Sherlock. I spent ten years in the Forces. I’ve killed people. I can take care of myself, and you _know_ I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, John, of course I—”

“And you _also_ know how it feels when people treat you like a child.”

“Not Good,” Sherlock admits.

“So you decided to treat _me_ like that because…?”

Sherlock doesn’t immediately realize that John’s waiting for a response: John often doesn’t finish sentences (another thing that’s infuriating when anyone else does it, but not John), but in this case apparently it’s deliberate and he wants Sherlock to finish the sentence.

He has to think about it; this is difficult. John deserves the truth, but…

“Because,” he finally says, “I hate it when you’re angry, but I’d much rather you were angry than hurt, or… or _dead_.”

John goes very still. Then he says, “Right. So now you know how _I_ feel, you stupid bugger.”


	4. Bouquet

Sherlock values his sense of smell. Even at his worst, he’s never been so heedless as to risk losing the capacity for valuable sensory input, which is why he always stuck to injecting cocaine even when Seb Wilkes and his friends were all snorting the stuff, and also why, much as he hates it, he acknowledges that nicotine patches are a better idea than cigarettes. (Also: difficult, though not impossible, to smoke three cigarettes at once.)

Smells are incredibly useful to the consulting detective: a case can turn on the traces of a woman’s perfume, the scent of a particular brand of tobacco, the degree of spoilage of a bottle of milk.

But Sherlock is increasingly (guiltily) using his olfactory powers for something else, something thrillingly illicit and probably Not Good, something that isn’t The Work (unless perhaps it is: things are becoming tangled).

He’s cataloguing the scents of John.

John’s various jumpers; John’s shampoo; John’s favourite Irish Breakfast tea. John’s shaving foam; John’s washing powder; the aftershave John uses when he’s got a date. Sherlock indexes them in his mind palace (in the room now devoted to John, whose implications he refuses to consider) and sometimes, when there is no case and John is at work, he takes them out and savours them: it helps to stave off the boredom.


	5. Blue

“It’s a jumper,” Sherlock says. Awkwardly, unnecessarily: _obviously_ it’s a jumper. _Stupid._ “Because you like to wear jumpers.”

What is _wrong_ with him?

“How did you know it was my birthday?”

“John, please. I’m not an _idiot_.”

John, looking bemused, folds back the rest of the tissue paper and lifts the garment out of its box. He rubs his thumbs across it, smiles tentatively: it’s a fine cashmere/merino blend, much softer than the things John normally wears, which tend to come from Marks & Spencer or the Oxfam shop and never fit him properly. He unfolds it and holds it up across his torso and looks up at Sherlock, really smiling; Sherlock smiles back, completely involuntarily, when he sees that he got it right, that the jumper really is the exact deep blue of John’s eyes.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John says. “It’s lovely.”

He puts jumper and wrappings aside and crosses his arms to pull his cabled oatmeal-coloured jumper (scratchy, bulky; gift from his gran, now dead) off over his head. The t-shirt underneath gaps slightly, showing half an inch of stomach, a glint of lamplight on fine blond hairs. Sherlock quickly looks away. When he looks back, John is pulling on his new jumper, and Sherlock is glad he bought it but sorry, too, because, oh, God, John is _beautiful._


	6. Blessing

It’s half two on a Sunday morning. John is still asleep; Sherlock stands at his bedroom window, wondering whether, by opening it and leaning out, he can smoke undetected. He’s reaching for the monograph on Phryganeidae that conceals an emergency stash when he hears it: faintly, distantly, a muffled shout.

He freezes.

Again: half shout, half sob: unmistakeably upstairs.

_John._

It’s happened before – not often; often enough. Sherlock has stood frozen before, racked between unfamiliar sensations: moved to comfort, unsure what to do. Awake, John is strong, courageous, kind; he comforts, he helps, he _fixes_. Asleep, it appears, John needs that comforting and kindness: instead, there’s only Sherlock.

Another muffled cry tapers up into a keening wail like a knife between Sherlock’s ribs. Half of him would run away and hide; the other half (the half that is learning from John) wins, and before he realizes, he’s up the stairs and opening John’s bedroom door.

Wide-open eyes gleam in the darkness, but John’s somewhere far away. He speaks: unintelligible syllables, tense, urgent.

“John.”

John freezes, breathing hard.

“John, it’s all right.” He moves closer, considers. Hand on shoulder – friend or foe? Instead he crouches, grips John’s elbows, speaks upwards: “You’re dreaming. John.”

John goes still, taut; collapses into Sherlock’s arms; then, head on Sherlock’s shoulder, mutters his name like a blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold [Sherlock's book on Phryganeidae (caddisflies)](http://www.utppublishing.com/The-Caddisfly-Family-Phryganeidae-Trichoptera.html)!
> 
> Once again AO3 is refusing to believe that my word counts are what they are. They really are all 221Bs, I swear!


End file.
